Growing Up
by the daroga
Summary: Mr. Tumnus contemplates Lucy growing up and makes a decision.


**Growing Up**

He watched the play of sunlight over the two girls' hair, dark and light, as they played at practicing archery. Ladies, he corrected himself. They were his sovereigns, as well as being well on their way to womanhood. Lucy's hair had lightened in the constant sun of Narnia-as-it-was-now as well as grown considerably; enough to pile half-heartedly on top of her head every day so that by tea time it was hanging in disarray past her shoulders. Tumnus liked nothing so much as the sight of her as she came in from her riding or fencing or walks alone in the woods to give gracious thanks for the tea and cakes before attacking them with the appetite of a young fox.

He thought she was beautiful.

The thought shamed him somewhat, as it had for some time now, and he turned away from the sisters without seeing Lucy glance over at him and wave, her hand dropping when she realized he was no longer watching. She went back to her target practice, though it was largely recreational these days, but now a little frown had taken up residence on her fair brow.

Tumnus could not tell whence came the feeling there was something not quite right about him. Was he not permitted to think his Queen beautiful? Everyone did, after all, though he suspected most favored Susan as the greater beauty. He'd met Lucy first, of all of them, and his place as her confidant was regarded with some amusement but no malice. As for the other Sons of Adam and Daughter of Eve, they changed before his eyes into something he'd never seen before; humans who were both beautiful and good and yet remote. Lucy alone stayed the same.

It wasn't for lack of his trying. A few years ago he had deemed it proper to begin addressing her as Queen Lucy, but she'd put paid to that quickly. "Gracious, Mr. Tumnus, must you? I've always been Lucy; I can keep on being Lucy. I shouldn't wish you to forget who I am, of all people." She'd beamed a smile at him, reaching out to tease a horn as she'd been wont to do, and she was a child again.

As she grew, past the awkwardness all species of young go through and into a kind of active grace she refused to acknowledge, it became harder to think of her as such. Her manner towards him remained as affectionate as ever, and when he periodically spoke about the prudence of returning to his home in the forest she would beg him not to and convince him with a suddenly childish artlessness that she'd be quite alone if he did. So he stayed, and he suffered her playful affection. Suffered, because he suffered not at all. Quite the opposite. He was past the age a Faun ought to be thinking of settling down, but he found it impossible to think of any form ever holding as much fascination for him as his Lucy's, of any moonlit or midsummer revel holding anything like the thrill of watching her ride past him to grab at rings and then turning, triumphantly, as she sought him out in the crowd.

He didn't tell anyone this, of course. This sort of thing was simply not spoken of; it was simply not done. Of course, the only woman who'd been around for the last one hundred years had been the Witch, who was hardly an incitement to break taboo. And that certainly couldn't be what he wanted from Lucy. It was unworthy of him. His intentions, aside from that early slip long ago forgotten (by her), were pure and he intended they remain that way.

When she came in from her archery that day to take her tea, he was waiting as he always was. He was increasingly nervous in her presence, and he thought she could sense it. She frowned a little as she entered and marched up to him, taking his hand.

"I do wish you'd come out with us today," she said. "Susan's simply no fun at all, you know. I've had no one make me laugh all day." The words were petulant but the voice was playful and invited like.

But Tumnus couldn't summon the humor. "I am sorry for that, Lucy." They were, after all, alone.

"What _is_ the matter, Tumnus?" She peered eagerly into his face, as if she could ease the information she wanted out of his eyes as easily as wheedling extra dessert from her older siblings; not that she'd done that for a long time, she'd insist if it was brought up. "You seem unhappy."

"Of course not. How could I be?" Tumnus summoned a smile but it played false even to him.

"I wish you'd tell me," Lucy said, squeezing his hand before releasing it to move hers up to his face. She traced the right side before easing her fingers down his beard to give it a little tug, like she used to but this one felt different. "I hate seeing you sad, Mr. Tumnus." Sometimes she lapsed back into calling him that, and it only reminded him of their difference in age; another matter of shame, as if the first was not enough.

He wondered about that, though. She'd grown so fast, here in Narnia. Almost before his eyes. On nights when he couldn't sleep, he'd think about that first meeting as if it were yesterday. They'd be so alike, once—two creatures thrust into a world neither understood. A world she'd made her own despite his having lived there for over 100 years. She'd said, later, that time moved differently in Spare Oom. Maybe--he thought with a shiver not entirely unpleasant—maybe they'd come into their worlds at the same time. The thought gave him a comfort he felt unentitled to, much as her caress now seemed something too wonderful to be permitted.

"Lucy," he said, and stopped. She was so close, so lovely and grown and somehow suddenly less confident than he'd ever seen her.

"Don't you like me, Tumnus?" she asked softly, the merest hint of a smile on her lips.

He could only nod.

"Why do you leave the room sometimes when I come in?" she asked him. He didn't know what to answer, didn't know if she was telling him what he thought she was. "Why are you looking at me that way? Please tell me what I did wrong."

"Oh, n-no, Lucy, you didn't do anything wrong. I thought, perhaps, as you're so grown up, you might be wanting…" he cast about for something a young Queen might want, "more.. space. Different society. Not your boring old Mr. Tumnus." He wasn't sure what he wanted from her, but there was a hint of suspicion she might laugh gently at his self-deprecation and bring her lips close enough that he might—

She did laugh, but it was not gentle; she laughed long and delightedly. "Oh Tumnus, don't be silly. Why should I want to grow up if it meant leaving you? We shan't ever grow up, you and I; we're far too intelligent for that. No, leave that for Susan and the boys; how silly they all are. I want _you_, Mr. Tumnus." She reached out and hugged him closely; but it was not the embrace he'd only half-dared imagine. "You're my best friend, silly. Why shouldn't I want you around?"

Tumnus looked into her shining, guileless eyes, and smiled back. The next day, he packed his few belongings and returned to his home in the forest. He would help when needed, and do as he thought best for those he'd sworn to serve. And when he met Lucy those few times before she disappeared with the others, there was a strain which had never been there before. But of two evils, he'd chosen the lesser. The one that let Lucy stay the woman-child he loved.


End file.
